Ache
by Flor de ceibo
Summary: A young Lovino deals with the guilt his ache for Spain provokes him. Warnings inside.


**Title**: Ache  
**Rating**: M/Soft R  
**Wordcount**: 260+/-  
**Pairing/Characters**: South Italy.  
**Warnings**: non-explicit masturbation.  
**Summary**: A young Lovino deals with the guilt his ache for Spain provokes him.  
**A/N**: Written for the kink meme. Remember, back then, masturbating was a big sin.

For those of you who read my "Tomato flavored love" series... I'm sorry. Writer's block is a bitch. Also, this is not in there because that's a happy series, dammit.

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Lovino turned around in his bed. He desperately sought in his mind some sort of distraction from the arousal he was feeling.

Nothing was working. Not the things he needed to do the next day (which he would most likely ignore), not thinking of those girls that kept flirting with him (oh that helped, but definitely not in the ways he was looking for), not even the guilt slowly forming deep in him was enough to placate the burning heat coming from inside.

His hand twitched, and slowly made its way to his waist.

Oh God dammit, it was all that stupid Spaniard's fault. He kept _touching_ him, all the fucking time. He insisted on washing his hair each time he took a shower, even if he was now pretty much grown up, and always, always managed to touch that hair… if it hadn't been the oblivious bastard that he knew so well, he'd think he was just playing dumb and touching him there on purpose…

He palmed his erection, pressing his lips closed to prevent any sound; any sign of how much the touch alleviated and made him yearn for more at the same time, denying to himself how on some nights, that thought, Spain touching him like that on purpose, kept him up all night.

Always, always all over him, drying him off after the shower ignoring his protests, his long fingers ghosting around his sides and his stomach, telling him how glad he was because he had gotten so big, that he was growing up so much, smiling and laughing, telling him he had been through that age, that he understood, when he huffed and yanked the towel off his hands to dry himself and _cover up, dammit_, if only to avoid yelling in his face if he had any idea what was he talking about. He wasn't inferior to Feliciano anymore, he should just be happy about that, but instead he just… he didn't know what he wanted.

His cock now free from his pajama pants, his hand running up and down the length, a sigh escaped him. It wasn't loud, and he needed to breathe after all. Spain's touch was still on his skin, on his sides stomach waist, it was torturous and at the same time warm, and when he had been told puberty was a bitch he really did not think it was such an accurate description.

All the teasing, unintentional or not, just made things worse. For all Spain told him "ah, Lovi, it seems you really have gotten so big!" when girls now talked about them both, not only about the Spaniard when they were out, he apparently refused to treat him any differently than a kid… or at his worst, overly-clingy moments, like a _cat_.

The memory of Spain's warmth surrounding him, his breath on his ear when they were together, learning of Spain's history, shot through him, and he stroked himself faster. He was biting his lip now, muffling the sounds and gasps threatening to come out. No one was listening, but he was more than enough for a witness of his own weakness.

He curled up as he felt the tell-tale heat piling up in the pit of his stomach (God this was so wrong he wasn't supposed to give in, this was wrong, wrong, _wrong_, a sin, his soul would be damned and with good reason if he couldn't resist something so mundane like what flesh, his _body_ ached for), and used the liquid dripping from the tip to stroke himself faster, biting on a finger of his free hand when biting his lip wasn't enough to muffle the sounds.

His orgasm hit him suddenly, and he trusted into his hand, trying not to make a mess, trying his hardest to keep some sort of control over himself even as the pleasure blinded him and he stretched himself, free of any guilt for a blindingly long moment.

He stayed still for a couple of seconds when he finally came back to his senses. He hastily cleaned himself with some of the sheets he had been previously using before changing them earlier, sighing when he realized he'd have to carry the basket with the dirty clothing and do the laundry himself, if only to prevent anything embarrassing to happen (at least, by sheer luck, he hadn't dirtied the ones he was using now). Dammit, there went his day of lazing around.

He came back to bed, and curled up. The sickening sensation of guilt filled him, and he knew this ache was one he couldn't get rid off easily.

Prayers slipped past his lips and tears came down, as he sought the sweet oblivion of sleep.

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**A/N**: I don't know. I was (somewhat still am) very Catholic and ended up in a big loving, but unnamed relationship with God as the years passed, so. Incidentally, out of those I wrote, this is one of my favorite fics ever. I don't want to know what that means (I kid, I'm pretty comfortable about my issues by now).

Also, I know I'm risking it by posting this here. But it's not completely explicit, right? Er... at least I'm pretty sure it doesn't break the rules.


End file.
